3AM
by Indigo Shoes
Summary: Lily Evans' witty personal perspective on her life - her feelings, past, future and wishes. 'And the ghosts I know return', -- Phil Collins.
1. Someone Forgot to Tell the Hero

We always used to call it Hope Hill. It rose out of the dust and dirt of our city like an angel towering over a battlefield. Perhaps that's exactly what our city was; a battlefield. It certainly contained enough hopeless cases. You couldn't exactly call us a poor family - sure, we lived in this trash city in the middle of nowhere, practically worshipping a *hill* - and we didn't always have enough money for new clothes, and, unlike most of my friends from nearby - they spent most of the year in expensive villages - we only had a holiday every five years. We didn't care - and I use 'we' in it's loosest term, here. My sister, Petunia, tended to pretend to be something she wasn't - she told her friends, as they departed for their yearly holidays, that our father was much too busy to take us away this year. We never knew our father, and I think her friends knew that. It was nice of them to humour her. I didn't have such luck. I was the kind of what- you-see-is-what-you-get girl - always have been, always will be. I guess that's why I was a little lacking in good friendships - little lacking here meaning that I had one good friend.  
  
Have you ever wished to be something you're not? I used to dwindle away so many hours wishing to have a proper family, living in one of those expensive villages that my not-so-close friends used to spend so much time in. I wished so hard that, sometimes, just for a second, I could hang between my imaginary life and my reality - and, in that second of bliss, I could almost taste the love that would be part of that life. Our mum loved us very much - she was always there. I guess it would be rude and greedy to say that she was the only one, but she was. It was obvious that our father didn't want anything to do with us. There's barely a year between me and Petunia - then he picked himself up and legged it. Never wanted the responsibility of a family. I do. I want to do something right.  
  
I want to stand atop the highest building in England and yell 'Hello, My name is Lily Evans - my dad couldn't stand the sight of me and left when I was hardly a day old. But I just wanted you all to know that I'm not bitter about this small and inconvenient fact - although I grew up without him, extremely alone and all by his choice, I have grown into a superbly bred young woman. Indeed, I have an incredibly stable husband of my own, and a daughter,' (I always wanted a daughter) 'and we are all very happy. We love each other very much, and none of us are going to choose to find a way out.' But there's a few small flaws in that plan; one, I have *the* biggest phobia of heights, and two, I am almost seventeen (in a weeks time) and still haven't been a part of any vaguely serious relationships. Romance- wise, I guess I'm a kind of. dud. I never quite know how to react - not a good thing, trust me. Of course, I'm not saying I'm not admired - that's one of the problems. James Potter - idiot extraordinaire - has it in his head that I am the only one for him. The total salami brain has been obsessed with me for - and here I have to count on my fingers, because the sheer annoy-ity of it makes it feel like forever - six years now. Of course, even he can't only obsess over me, but I'd say that his obsession over me - as wrong as it is - has lasted the longest. I wake up each morning and mentally beg the foul moron to go get himself a life. I often tell him this - apparently he finds it attractive or something, because he just follows me like some kind of lost puppy. If I didn't despise the use of strong language, there would be a lot of things I would call him right here - however, I prefer more descriptive terms, and therefore it would be more constructive use of my time to inform you of just why I hate him.  
  
James Potter - Marauder. Marauders - a group of immature, popular males that enjoy putting various innocent (and not-so-innocent) people through absolute hell. Hell - having your features extended to ridiculous lengths, your hair turned blue, your quill attack you mid-Potions, muddy puddles appearing from nowhere beneath your feet, and freezing to death in the winter because *some one* told the House Elves that there was going to be a heat wave. If that wasn't enough, they have a prefect in their midst, and he doesn't even try to refrain them from this consistent havoc wreaking they find so enjoyable.  
  
I attend a not-quite-normal school - by saying this I don't mean they teach us all to be dropouts and hang around at street corners smoking and trying to look cool and adult. By saying 'I attend a not-quite-normal school' I mean, quite frankly, that I am, as was none before me in my family tree (as far as I can tell), a Witch. Right now I even have the authentic wart on the end of my nose, although, technically, it's a blackhead spot. My school is a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry; it's called 'Hogwarts'. I think they were rather drunk when they named the school. We had some foreign exchange-student visit us last year and she couldn't even pronounce it properly - as in, it didn't even have the basis of a recognisable word. But I'm not shallow enough to hold a grudge because she simply pronounced the name wrong (dork).  
  
Amy - my childhood friend - moved, not long after I started my First Year at Hogwarts. Hogwarts, being a boarding school, kept me from giving my final farewells to dear little Amy. I've never seen her since; I've often gone to ring her and had to put the phone back down, thinking 'what would I ever say to this girl?' In all truthfulness, we are strangers now. It seems like forever since we would sit up late talking to each other through walky-talkies; we had so much to say then. Now all I can think of saying it 'aren't we having pleasant weather?' and, even now, I can imagine her reply; 'Lily, did you just call to talk about the weather? Because I was hoping you'd have more to say.' That's why we got on so well, you see; neither of us was ever afraid to speak our minds. But times have changed, and I'd never be able to tell her who I really am. 'Put down the phone, Lily; you know your path has changed course now. You can't go back.' There's so much left to say. Petunia's a Muggle (Muggle - a non-magical person), and so is my mum (Annie). I am a stand-alone person. Their world is so bland.  
  
We always used to call it Hope Hill. It rose out of the dust and dirt of our city like an angel towering over a battlefield. Perhaps that's exactly what our city was; a battlefield. But I left that world behind. The sky above Hope Hill always used to be colourless, no matter what weather the rest of the city was experiencing. Hope Hill was neutral. I was at Hope Hill when I realised what I was. 


	2. And I Thought I Didn't Care

There's a wind-broken tree at the top of Hope Hill; it scratches the sky with its sharp-pointed limbs. It's deformed and twiggy - it has never, that I remember, had more than five leaves at any one time. It provides no shelter, but sitting beneath it you can feel the world beneath you and the magic of what was created - no matter what your belief - millions and millions of years ago. Shame man ruined such a beautiful piece of art as the earth - shame I had a hand in it.  
  
One of my earliest memories of this place - this battlefield - was the Christmas Eve before my fifth birthday (I'm a January girl). My mum was stumbling her way through some recipe she'd cut out of a magazine and taped into the back of her cook-book - the book was red, and had the words 'Christmas Cooking' printed across the front in flaking gold print. It's one of my strongest Christmas memories; mum's book. I can't remember what mum was cooking, but the taste on the air was sweet and heavy. Petunia was trying on her frock, ready for the next day - I was drawing us all opening our gifts, in front of the rather bald Christmas tree my mum had brought cheaply from our great uncle, who was going senile and ordered approximately five Christmas trees each year without fail. I didn't have colouring pencils at that age, so I was using a bright range of wax crayons, that were left out in the sun one summer and had taken on the size and shape of several painted slugs. There was this sudden moment, as I coloured my mum's face red (I'd lost my pink crayon some three months before hand), that I realised, for the first time in my so far blissfully ignorant life, that there was something missing from the image. As I sat back on my heals, examining to pictures with my beady little eyes - so different to my mother and Petunia's large winter-sky-steel-blue eyes - I knew what it was. It was something everyone seemed to have apart from me . . .  
  
I'd never really noticed the absence of my father before that; I can't remember the man. I don't want to. Petunia and me were pretty oblivious to the fact that we didn't not have a father because we couldn't afford one, but because he didn't care. Perhaps my mum meant for it to be like that; that way she didn't have to look too closely at how big her mistake had been. It wasn't her fault, and I have never in my life blamed her - we see so much more than there really is in someone, when we're in love. We don't want to face that perhaps - just perhaps - we're wrong. It works the same way with hate . . .  
  
But, back to Christmas; my mum noticed my frown and asked what was wrong, as parents frequently do, whether we want them to or not. I, being 'a bear of very little brain', asked if we were getting a father for Christmas. When my mum laughed and replied that she hoped not, I couldn't help but feel offended; it's not everyday you're told that your father isn't hiding under the Christmas tree, wrapped up in sparkly paper and tinsel, with a note reading 'To Lily, Love Santa' or 'Three AA Batteries Required'.  
  
I asked her why not, and if they were more expensive than a television. It was probably about then she realised I was serious, and hadn't just been listening to the radio a little too much. Her brow furrowed and she stopped mixing whatever it was in the bowl she hugged. She looked thoughtful for a few minutes - probably not so long, but it seemed like a decade of thoughtfulness - and eventually smiled softly and answered we were doing pretty well on our own.  
  
I didn't agree. 


End file.
